


Break My Spine, Burn My Pages

by alex_caligari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ABANDONED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, Alternate Universe, Animal Death, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Murder, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_caligari/pseuds/alex_caligari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another. You’d be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us.” Sequel to 'Heartbeats and Footfalls.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to stay as a small encounter in a bookshop and then...got bigger. No beta, all mistakes are mine. Cheerleaders welcome.

The bookshop was one of those old, tucked-away places that never seem to show up on a map. It looked small from the outside, with a large, slightly dirty picture window made up of many individual panes. Unfamiliar titles could be glimpsed through the window, if you peered closely, and might be enough to tempt someone inside. The interior matched the drab exterior, and tall shelves stuffed with second-hand books made for a confusing maze through the shop. There didn’t appear to be any sort of order to it, either alphabetically or topically, unless you were the sort of person who would make connections between composer biographies, vegan cookbooks, and pregnancy guides. The front desk was well hidden, visible only after you had traversed the imposing shelves and perhaps had the rare fortune to actually find what you were looking for. It was a moment full of trepidation, for you wouldn’t know if the person behind the desk was a gentle book collector with a kind nature and would only very reluctantly let the book go, or a raving, crass, possibly drunken lunatic who seemed confused as to why customers would come bother him at his shop.

It was either very lucky, or, depending on your viewpoint, very unlucky that the owner of the bookshop in which Sherlock and John found themselves was neither of these things. There had been rumors that it was a front for money laundering, which is why they were here in the first place. John was unsure whether they had been hired or ‘requested’ to come here, only that it had involved much coat drama and rapid instructions.

Sherlock was glancing over the cashier desk and John was perusing the dusty titles when a familiar voice sounded out. “Did you miss me, dear heart?”

They froze momentarily, then Sherlock charged towards the back of the shop, with John close behind. They both had recognized that voice.

Leaning in the doorway of the back room was a tall thin man with hair the colour and thickness of lamb’s wool, which had been swept artfully back. He had mischief written all over his face, and his eyes were a curious opalescent green. He was dressed well, although old-fashioned; his trousers were high-waisted, and he wore a waistcoat over shirtsleeves, complete with armbands. It looked like he had simply ignored changes in fashion for the last eighty years.

“Babel!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Oh, we’re still using that moniker, are we?” Babel said. “Very well. How are you doing, my dear? I see the soul made it back alright.” Babel nodded to John, who had an expression of faint recognition but couldn’t quite place him. Sherlock remembered that John’s memories of Babel weren't as clear as his own.

“Mr Babel was my guide when you were...” Sherlock paused. Damn it, it had been three years already, _just say it._ “...in the Underground,” Sherlock finished.

John’s face left confusion, flirted briefly with alarm, before settling down with stoicism. “Right,” he said, “The one who said he was your patron.” Babel beamed.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded of Babel. “You never before lowered yourself to interfere with my life, why start now?”

Babel lost his casual eagerness. “My dear, precious though you are to me, my existence does not solely revolve around you.” He sniffed, making sure Sherlock was properly cowed. “I am here to meet my brother, a distasteful but necessary chore. As for why I am _here_ in this particular shop, it is because I only ever agree to meet with him if I am able to choose the location, and hopefully he will be too distracted by the 60-year-old law books to spend much time on me.”

“Good Lord,” John muttered, causing both men to turn to him. “Sorry, just realizing why you like him,” he said to Babel with a nod to Sherlock.

“So it’s a coincidence that we happen to cross paths like this?” Sherlock asked.

_“Absolument,”_ Babel said, spreading his hands. “Although it is funny you’re here, because it’s _your_ brother we need to discuss. Oh yes,” he said at Sherlock’s expression, “you are not the only special one around here.”

“Mycroft has a patron too?” John said. Sherlock made an offended noise.

“Of course,” Babel said. “We only take an interest in extraordinary people, and extraordinary people tend to attract one another.” He glanced pointedly at Sherlock. “You’d be surprised at how many people you know that have been favoured by us.”

“Does extraordinarily lazy count?” Sherlock groused.

“Now, now, dear heart,” Babel said, “behave. If you do, I might allow you to stay and observe. It would be most interesting to you.”

While Sherlock paused long enough to actually consider this offer, the front door opened and closed with a soft _click,_ somehow ignoring the little bell perched above it. “Ah, that’s Paul now. Quick!” He flapped his hands at the pair of them, and they moved out of sight behind one of the towering bookshelves. They were definitely _not_ hiding, Sherlock decided, merely observing an interaction without interfering in it.

The patron in question walked past them, boot heels ringing on the hardwood floor. John had expected him to look similar to Mycroft, as Babel looked similar to Sherlock, and in a way it was true. Mycroft managed to _be_ ostentatious while still _looking_ inconspicuous, what with his bespoke suits and umbrella and black cars. He could be wearing a bright orange safety vest and still blend in. This man was the same. He was dressed in cream coloured linen and had tanned skin and a straight nose. Short black hair peeked out from under a Panama hat, and his eyes were covered by gold wire-framed aviator sunglasses with green lenses. He didn't have an umbrella, but he did have snakeskin boots. He looked like he had stepped off a cruise of the Mediterranean Riviera in 1949. "Brother mine," he said.

"Dearest Paul," Babel answered.

“Apollo,” John breathed beside Sherlock. “I thought for sure Mycroft's patron would have been Anthea, it’s an obvious name change.” He caught Sherlock staring at him. “What?”

Outside their non-hiding spot, Paul sighed. “Why must you stick me with these ridiculous nicknames? Especially when there are ears to hear them.” He turned slightly in Sherlock and John’s direction but said nothing else regarding them. “Shall we?”

Babel hesitated. “You know why we’re meeting?”

“I know you called the meeting,” Paul answered. “And I know you would rather not be in debt to me for anything. So please, brother, get to the point and stop acting as if this is against your will.”

“It’s impossible for Anthea to be one of them,” Sherlock whispered back. “I can _see_ her.” He waved vaguely in the direction of his temple. “I can’t see People like them.They’re blank.”

Babel drew himself up, an unnecessary action as he was already taller than Paul. “It’s about your favoured. The politician.”

Paul smiled, showing far more teeth than was friendly. “Ah, yes. He’s one of my favourites. What has he got into now?”

John turned towards Sherlock. “Really? Nothing at all?”

Sherlock huffed. “It’s more like a kaleidoscope. Everything’s changing all the time, sliding away.”

“Show me,” John said. “Do Paul.”

Sherlock sighed but indulged him. “Judging by how thin his face is compared to the rest of his muscle mass, he’s likely had a severe illness recently, but has since recovered. A businessman’s tan, he obviously travels quite frequently and to warm climates. He has calluses on his fingers from some sort of stringed instrument, and he’s wearing an Oxford ring, so he’s well educated. The snakeskin boots say eccentric but wealthy enough for people to ignore it.” Sherlock looked again and saw that it was all wrong. “Except he hasn’t had an illness, there are no calluses, and there is no ring.”

“He’s getting too close to us,” Babel said. “I think he should be discouraged.”

“I hardly think so,” Paul said.

“For Father’s sake, he has Iris working for him!” Babel exclaimed.

“You don't think that Iris could be...” John whispered.

“Anthea is not one of them!” Sherlock insisted. “Who is Iris?”

“She’s a messenger.” At Sherlock’s look, he explained. “I’ve been reading up on this stuff, just in case. Haven’t you?”

Paul had been silent for some time. Finally he removed his hat and said, “Dear brother, I am aware how frivolous you can be and how the current situation may have missed you. But you must trust that everything is being done in our best interests.”

“Does that include our favoured?” Babel challenged. “Or just our People?”

Paul didn’t answer the question, and instead turned towards them and called out, “You should hear this. It concerns you as well.”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other before stepping out into view. Paul looked them over intently. "I see," he murmured. "Yes, I can see what all the fuss was over these two."

Sherlock cut to the chase by asking, "To what situation are you referring?"

Paul took a few more seconds to watch them, unwilling to be hurried. “The People have never been a very cohesive organization, and alliances made yesterday can be broken tomorrow. Things have been getting out of hand with a few of the more powerful divines, and normally we could deal with them without too much collateral damage.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard about the collateral damage,” John said, unimpressed.

Paul gazed coolly at him before continuing. “It’s true; it used to be that turning someone into a tree or striking them down with lightening was enough. But the world has changed, and we must be subtler with our intervention. Hence, your brother.”

John snorted. It would burn Mycroft up to learn that he was a tool of the gods, directed to ‘intervene’ on their behalf. Sherlock looked furious. “You said that Mycroft was getting close to you; has he known this whole time? Leaving me to struggle along the hard way?”

“Hush, dear,” Babel said. “You were doing perfectly well before you met me and you will continue to do well afterwards. Envy does not suit you. Mycroft knows no more than you did before you took back your John. He only suspects that someone is helping him, giving him the right nudge at the right time.”

Paul nodded. “This means that Mycroft could help suppress our kin by suppressing their favoured, but he has no idea what his actions are truly doing. If we involve him in this current insurrection, he could unknowingly become the target of an angry divine. It is a very fine line to walk.”

“You’re worried about him,” John realized.

“Of course,” Paul said. “I am his patron.”

It was a serious situation indeed if someone was worried about _Mycroft’s_ safety. Sherlock looked torn between asking what could threaten his brother and dismissing it as uninteresting because it didn’t involve him. Curiosity won out. “Who is your primary concern?

Babel and Paul glanced at each other, Babel looking as curious as Sherlock. “Our brother Ares,” Paul said. Babel hissed. “He’s being more devious this time, not his usual method,” Paul continued. “He’s using our favoured against each other.”

Babel scowled. "So he's finally come out of the dark ages," he muttered.

Paul turned to Sherlock and John, assessing them from behind his green lenses. "As I said before, our methods have become subtler. Rather than face one another directly and leave deep wounds upon the world, we instead allow our favoured to determine the outcome."

John snorted at the euphemism.

Paul ignored him. "Our power no longer comes from the number of believers, but from our favoured. When they succeed, so do we."

"And when they fail..." Sherlock muttered. Paul nodded.

"So you're more worried about Ares' favoured than Ares himself," John said. He knew he was right, and was saying it out loud more for his benefit than anyone else's. But the reaction the statement produced was unexpected. Paul merely bowed his head, but Babel looked stricken and Sherlock was nearly quivering with impatience and excitement. It was one of those moments where everyone knew what was going on except him. John replayed the last few minutes of the conversation in his head and came up with a rather unsettling conclusion. "Oh, shit." Mycroft was a potential target, and Babel said that their favoured tended to cross paths... "It's someone we know. You think you might be a target as well?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock thought fast. He had told John everything from his time in the Underground, but had left out what he considered extraneous details. This included much of what Babel had said to him, and the implication that the people closest to him also had divine patrons. If Sherlock became a target, it was irrelevant whether John had a patron or not. He would become a target as well; it was a given in their life. Sherlock decided to address John's first statement instead. "It is highly likely that we would have met them at some point; I assume that you would have more than one favoured at any given time?" he asked Paul.

Babel, tired of being ignored, broke in. _"Some_ do," he said, sneering at Paul. "Most of us don't. Ares only has so many because he goes through them so fast. His favoured tend to be like him; impulsive, violent, and insane."

"Well, that narrows it down," John said drily.

"What information can you give us on them?" Sherlock asked. Two pairs of divine eyes stared back.

"Pardon?" Paul said, sounding confused.

"So we can find them," Sherlock explained. "We are aware of the full situation, unlike Mycroft, so we can protect ourselves better. If it is indeed true that we have had contact with the people in question, we can locate and stop them before Ares gets more powerful, allowing you to step in and bring things under control. Simple. Why else would you tell us all this if you didn't want our help?"

Babel continued to stare while Paul turned thoughtful. He started to reach out towards Sherlock before stopping with a quick glance to Babel. When Babel nodded, Paul gently cupped Sherlock's face, thumb running over his cheek. Sherlock blinked at the contact but held himself still. "If you help us, there will be blood spilled," he said. "We will not be able to protect you if you are attacked by a divine. Are you willing to risk yourself and your John for a fight that isn't even yours?"

Sherlock stared back, keeping his face carefully blank. John remembered with a chill that Apollo was also the god of prophecy.

Babel had a very different reaction. He paled and started to shake. "No, no, no, no," he was saying, "you will not be part of this." He knocked Paul's hand away and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the shoulder, shoving him towards the door. Sherlock resisted, but Babel was stronger and ignored his protests. He finally pushed Sherlock out the door and stepped back with a cold glare until John followed. "This isn't your concern," Babel said. "I will not risk losing you to one of Ares' favoured." He spat his brother's name.

"You could use us," Sherlock argued, " and you know it."

"Leave it!" Babel said. He met Sherlock's eyes for a long moment before softening. "Stay vigilant, and look out for each other." He turned and disappeared behind the closed door before either of them could speak.

Sherlock immediately shoved the door open again, but there was no sign of Babel or Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because they are too cool not to show off, [Paul's sunglasses.](http://www.klasik.org/sunglasses/m4050/p1/onclicks/k5726.html) Also, I will freely admit that Paul has a little of the [Fassbender](http://media.comicbookmovie.com/images/users/uploads/26199/X-Men%20Erste%20Entscheidung%20-%20151.jpg) in him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I have the majority of the plot sketched out now, so hopefully I'll be quickly getting this updated. Fingers crossed!

It was three months after the encounter at the bookshop before John started to get worried.

At first he thought it was only due to Babel's refusal to let Sherlock assist with tracking down the errant favoured. Sherlock never was able to take a refusal at face value, treating it instead as a delayed invitation. First he combed through old cases, trying to find people who matched Babel's less than helpful description. Plenty of people they knew, or at least helped get arrested, could be considered impulsive, violent, insane, or any combination of the three. Those who were still incarcerated were dismissed immediately, while those who were out on parole or had somehow managed to escape the system were set aside to be examined further. Sleep and food were ignored to the degree that John threatened to slip a sedative into Sherlock's tea and hook him up to an IV drip.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You don't have access to that kind of equipment."

"You really think Mike will say no once I mention your name?" John said. Sherlock slowed his frantic pace after that, but only just.

John would have helped, except Sherlock seemed to have developed an arbitrary system to determine who was 'worthy' of having a patron. "Extraordinary, John," he said one day. "That's what Babel said. Why on earth would a serial rapist be extraordinary? Think!"

If the only symptoms of this new obsession were case files strewn all over the flat, John could have let it go. But Sherlock began to apply it to active cases as well. Scanning the crowd at crime scenes was unusual, as he tended to ignore everyone not directly involved, but left unremarked upon. His new interrogation methods, however, left something to be desired.

"But _how_ did you know he was going to be in the kitchen?" he asked one young man, who was covered in blood spray and still a little shocked.

"I dunno," he stammered, "I just heard a noise and thought it was odd, so I grabbed my bat."

"Not someone's usual reaction to hearing an odd noise in the middle of the day. You had no sudden insights, no flashes of inspiration?"

Lestrade thankfully stepped in before the man could get confused any further. "Leave the victim services to the professionals, alright?" He waved Sherlock off, leaving John to try to herd him away from the scene. They didn't really need to be there, but the recently created corpse was one of the top men in a human trafficking ring. They had been tracking him for days, and had him on the run when he decided to break into a house and take a hostage. Unfortunately, it was the home of an up-and-coming cricket star who had no qualms about defending himself.

"What was all that about?" John asked. When Sherlock didn't speak, he answered for him. "It's this patron stuff, isn't it?"

"I was so close!" Sherlock cried. "If we had got to Richardson before that idiotic troglodyte did, this would have been so much easier."

John took a moment to piece it together. "You thought that Richardson was one of the favoured you're looking for, and if you caught him, it would have meant that you earned points with Babel and proved that you can help. And you were trying to see if Michael in there had a patron of his own looking out for him. Am I close?"

The look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. John sighed. "Right, well, case over, let's eat and then you can explain to me how getting yourself nearly killed about five times in the past week is going to help anyone."

"'Nearly' killed," Sherlock grumbled, but followed him anyway. "You know that 'nearly' is as close as they are ever going to come."

"Doesn't make it any easier," John said.

* * *

A month after that John noticed odd stories appearing in the newspaper. Mixed in with the usual tabloid junk were warnings about packs of feral dogs roaming the parks at night. Birds had begun to attack passersby, prompting reports on nesting and territorial behaviour. Street crime had risen, muggings, robberies, and even bar fights taking a sharp rise. Experts were called in to explain it using graphs and statistics that no one but them could decipher, and all had conflicting theories.

John began to keep his gun obsessively clean.

Even more unsettling were the number of previous convictions being turned over. A beautiful woman whom John vaguely remembered being in the news several years ago for murdering her two children was released due to contaminated evidence. Video footage of her weeping in gratitude was contrasted with pictures of her young sons.

Several stories like that appeared over the next few weeks. Charges of assault, manslaughter, and other violent crimes were suddenly dropped, despite sufficient evidence. There were whispers of police corruption but nothing surfaced. Lestrade became unreachable due to the number of cases that had to be reopened. Only the cases that Sherlock had assisted on were left untouched.

Sherlock rarely spoke of patrons or favoured since the Richardson case, but John knew he was still keeping an eye on who was being released. Individually they were unconnected, but seen through their rather unique perspective it was adding up to a disturbing picture.

* * *

Another two months and Sherlock found a case that finally pulled him away from his files and out of the flat. A young woman had been killed in Regent's Park in what Sherlock described as 'a curious manner.' Her hands and feet had been bound and her throat was slashed. She had then been put into a white dress and left under a tree. But the detail that caught Sherlock's attention was that a dog had been killed in the same manner and left beside her. Most people would be worried that such a gruesome murder had occurred practically on their front doorstep, but Sherlock was merely pleased that they could walk to the crime scene.

Lestrade met them at the cordon. He looked tired, and had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Sherlock nodded in greeting but didn’t comment. “No ID on her,” Lestrade said. “Don’t know who she is yet. She was found at 6:30 this morning by an insanely early rising jogger. He’s over there.” He waved towards a fit middle-aged man in lurid spandex being questioned by Sally.

“Unimportant,” Sherlock dismissed. “I need to see the body first.”

Lestrade escorted them to the girl, her dress looking startlingly bright against the leaf litter, with very little blood on it. She was about 25, with a trace of youthful pudge still clinging to her face. Her long brown hair had been braided and lain across her shoulder. She was tucked in-between the roots and looked peaceful, save for the bruises on her wrists and ankles and the slash across her throat.

Sherlock paused for moment, taking in the scene, before slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves and crouching next to her. John watched him examine the fraying shoulder straps of the dress. He opened her eyes and mouth before moving on to her nail beds. People tended to assume that his lack of emotion regarding a corpse was due to a lack of empathy, but John had learned to see it differently. Sherlock was never careless with the dead. He had a professional detachment that bordered on delicacy, and could almost be mistaken for reverence. John had seen coroners with far less bedside manners concerning their ‘patients.’

While Sherlock was absorbed with the woman, John looked at the second victim. It was a large mastiff mutt in similar condition. The nylon rope was still wrapped tightly around its paws, and its throat was cut with the same precision. John was no vet, but he knew dogs. It was a stray, lacking any collar impressions. Its coat was mangy, and it was severely underfed. New and old scars littered its muzzle. It had been on the streets for a long time.

“What do you know about dogs?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up from examining the woman’s ankles. “I was bitten by one once. Other than that, not much.”

“A dog this size being on the streets for a prolonged length of time is rare. The RSPCA would have picked it up a long time ago. It’s covered in scars and it’s fairly old for a stray. It’s a fighter.”

Sherlock waited. “So?”

“So,” John continued, enjoying the role reversal, “a big, violent dog that’s managed to avoid capture and then killed in a ritualistic manner? And,” he lowered his voice, “guess whose favourite animals were dogs?”

John could practically see the mental filters fall into place as Sherlock blinked at the bodies. “A sacrifice,” he murmured.

“Someone’s been playing a long game, Sherlock. Something like this doesn’t just happen without someone benefiting.”

Sherlock suddenly spun in place, gaze sweeping over the officers, the crime scene techs, the reporters, and the occasional gawking spectator. Most wore expressions of seriousness and concern, except for one person near the back. A woman who looked like she had been sleeping rough was staring at them with a manic grin. Her clothes were patchwork, and her red hair stuck out wildly from her head, like a mane.

“Her,” Sherlock said, and that was all the warning he gave before he took off running. The woman saw him and dashed away.

John allowed himself half a second of annoyance before he followed.

Luckily, the woman ran towards the street instead of deeper into the park, and Sherlock was in his element. The woman ran blindly, not knowing the streets like they did, which struck John as odd. Sherlock noticed too, and rather than follow her directly, he started herding her. After over three years of working together, John and Sherlock operated with nearly military precision, one forcing their target down a side street, the other preventing her turning a certain way. She gave a good chase, and by the time they cornered her in a blind alley, they were both panting. She turned to them and snarled.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded. He glanced at John, but he shook his head. He didn’t know either.

“I’m nothing,” the woman said. “I’m what everyone wants to forget but will never get rid of. I’m weak until someone gives me power.”

“Stop playing stupid,” Sherlock said. “You’re one of Ares’ accomplices, aren’t you?”

At the name, she grew still. “You know about the warmonger?” she asked quietly. “Then you are allies of his enemies.” She cackled. “Fear has tricked you and confounded you! You haven’t found the catalyst! Fear will defeat you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Sherlock said conversationally. “We’ve been through hell and back already. Several times, haven’t we, John?”

The woman ignored him, and crouched down as if to attack. John tensed. “Fear will make cowards of you yet!” she shrieked, and charged. John jerked forward, uncertain if he was moving in front of Sherlock or simply pushing him out of the way, but before she reached them, the woman exploded into a confusing flock of black birds.

* * *

They returned home several hours later. John had made a vague excuse about their sudden departure, and Sherlock pointed them in the direction of a coworker in the office where the dead woman worked as temp, all details gleaned from her body.

Sherlock was texting Lestrade about the investigation’s progress when John shoved an open book in front of him. “Phobos,” John said. “Name means ‘fear.’ One of Ares’ attendants into battle.” With no reaction from Sherlock forthcoming, John cursed. “You know what this means, right? He knows about us now. And he knows that we know about him. It’s bad enough that normal criminals want to stick sharp things into us, now we have to worry about divine retribution?”

“They would have become aware of us sooner or later. I’m surprised it took this long; Ares and his allies clearly have communication issues.” John continued to stand in front of him. “Yes?”

“Have you spoken to Mycroft?”

Sherlock looked up at his brother’s name. “Mycroft can take care of himself. He’s hardly one to put himself in dangerous situations. He has lackeys for that.” When John remained silent, he added, “What would I say? ‘Stop doing your job because an ancient Greek god might take offense’? He’ll be fine.”

John huffed in annoyance, but let it go. There was no way to make Sherlock talk to Mycroft if he didn't want to. He spent the evening reading more about the various war deities and listening to the intermittent binging of Sherlock's mobile. It was dark by the time Sherlock stirred from the settee. After his disappearance from an active crime scene, combined with increasing media pressure on the police, Lestrade had told Sherlock to keep his distance from official investigations. But, he had said, that didn't mean he couldn't communicate with a private citizen in an unofficial context. With Sherlock's impatient guidance, Lestrade and his team had discovered the woman's name, Wendolyn Roberts, and had begun talking to her coworkers. One man, Jeffrey Thorsen, had been extremely agitated and when confronted, tried to escape.

"Did they get him?" John asked after being filled in.

Sherlock's face was blank. "He ran into the street and was hit by a lorry. He was killed instantly."


	3. Chapter 3

If Sherlock had doubted himself even the slightest bit, he would have thought he was going insane. John and he were now known to the enemy. It had been far easier when they were mere collateral damage and their movements unnoticed. Now, he felt as if there were People everywhere, glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and unknown to everyone else. A man with a limp that was definitely not psychosomatic brushed by them on the street, smelling strongly of iron. A person sitting at a cafe reading a newspaper was simultaneously a woman dressed in drag and a recent MTF patient. Two young men with matching arrowhead necklaces were swooning over each other in a restaurant at the table beside them. Any information gleaned from the first look would be contradicted in the second. It put Sherlock sharply on edge. 

Sherlock continued his private hunt for favoured. He needed to know their movements, who they were connected with, if they were a threat. His homeless network was taxed beyond its limits; once the connection was made between who he wanted followed and how often their trackers ended up dead, few people were willing to take up his requests. Even as Sherlock began to feel the strain of keeping track of so many (suspected) favoured at the same time, he refrained from telling John. John was a man of action, a doctor. You don’t sit and watch a problem get worse, you attack it with the best tactics you have. He would never let Sherlock continue as he was if he knew how deeply he was involved.

He wasn't worried. Of course not. He was safe. John was safe. As long as the grace given to them remained, they were fine. They could be injured, yes, even grievously so, but they would not be taken out by a lucky strike such as had befallen Fear's unfortunate puppet. But the People had a way of working around the rules. 

Mycroft had noticed his distractedness – Sherlock refused to call it paranoia. Whatever it was, Mycroft had likely noticed months ago but had waited until now to say anything. Sherlock had borrowed John's mobile (his was in the kitchen) and surreptitiously checked his calls and texts. It wasn't snooping, he told himself. If something went wrong, he wanted to know with whom John had been in contact. Sherlock scowled as he saw a text from Mycroft, dated a week ago.  _My brother appears to be jumping at ghosts,_  it said.  _Anything I should be concerned about? –MH._  After his initial flash of irritation that Mycroft was going through John once again to acquire information, Sherlock realized that for once Mycroft had given him a valuable insight. He didn’t know about the People; they likely weren't showing up on any of his surveillance methods. It meant that the half-formed thought of asking Mycroft for help was pointless. John had replied to the text, suitably vague and dismissive:  _Nothing we can't handle._  

It all came to a head one day when they were visiting the flat of a suspected embezzler. They were looking for the reason of the embezzling; a large cache of meth. Sherlock was feeling for hiding spots under the windowsill when he noticed a man who had stopped to smoke across the street. He wouldn’t have given him a second glance if his appearance wasn’t shifting like oil on water. Sherlock froze and stared.

“I can’t find anything in here,” John called from the bedroom. “Maybe they should call in the drug dogs.” He watched John’s reflection approach him in the window. “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

“What can you tell me about that man down there?” he asked.

John joined him at the window. “Short, lean. Maybe forty. Looks posh. Why, what’s he actually like?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know.” John looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t. It’s all blurring together.” He turned away in frustration.

It was half a minute before John said his name in a familiar and unwelcome tone of voice.

“It’s fine, it’s nothing,” Sherlock said in a fruitless effort to stall the lecture. John followed him across the room.

“It’s not nothing,” John said. “Something’s been eating at you for weeks. It’s not healthy. The way you’ve been acting lately, all jumpy...people are worried.”

“You mean Mycroft.”

John blinked, but didn’t ask how he knew. He was used to Sherlock’s regular invasions of privacy. “Among others.” He sighed, and steeled himself. “I think you should drop this whole patron obsession. Forget about Babel and the favoured and try to get back to normal,” he continued over Sherlock’s scoff at _obsession_. “It’s affecting your work, can’t you see that?”

Sherlock knew. He hadn’t been as attentive to cases as usual, always keeping half an eye open for People. It didn’t help matters that he was the only one who knew what to look for, or could see them for what they were. But their numbers were growing, and sightings more frequent. He was narrowing his list of favoured down. He couldn’t give up now.

“Why are you doing this?” John asked. “What’s worth tearing yourself to pieces over? This isn’t a game or a puzzle. There’s no solution.”

Sherlock paused. He was tempted to brush it off or give a meaningless half-truth, but John deserved better than that. He told him, because John being worried about him was awful, and it was better to have him at his back rather than at arm’s length. He told him about the People he’d seen, and not knowing if they were enemy or ally, and about how everyone involved with Ares seemed to end up dead.

“Why don’t you back off, then?” John asked, and Sherlock saw that he very much wanted to ask a different question.

“I can’t,” he said. “You’re right; if I let this be, things would get back to normal. I could leave the fight to Babel and get on with my life. But I can’t. There’s something about this. It would be easy to say it was the novelty of chasing down the impossible, or knowing I was the only one who could it, or even that I was concerned about retaliation and wanted to strike first. But that doesn’t explain it. I feel driven, like it’s an impulse. It feels out of my control.” By the time he finishing talking, his hands were tightly fisted and he was breathing harder than normal.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John murmured, and finally came to the question he needed to ask. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this was happening?”

“Everyone dies, John, whether they’re Ares’ enemies or not. Do you think I wanted us involved with that?”

John shrugged. “Not us, clearly, but you? You’d love it. You live for stuff like that, matching wits with death on the line. Just like the first night I met you.”

Something ticked at the back of Sherlock’s mind that this was _wrong,_ but he barrelled on anyway. “I was trying to protect you, idiot!”

“By not telling me you felt you weren’t in control!” John shouted him down. This was wrong, he needed John on his side.

“It wasn’t just that,” Sherlock said quietly. “I lost you once, and there is _no force on earth_ that will make me go through that again.”

John quieted down as well. “You won’t,” he said, his anger at Sherlock fading.

Sherlock nodded quickly. “I know, but-” He couldn’t finish. It was irrational, he knew. They were perfectly safe but the thought of harm coming to John terrified him.

“Your nightmares are getting worse,” John said.

Sherlock fixed him with a stare. “How–?”

“I know you, I know your patterns. I know that even when you do sleep you’re not getting rest.”

“It’s nearly every night now,” Sherlock admitted. “Over and over, and there’s nothing I can do about it. These People have ways of cheating the odds; you know the stories better than I do. There’s always a loophole you never saw coming.”

“And you thought that I could better avoid that by not knowing about it?” John had stepped closer to him, and he couldn’t hide his discomfort.

“The rationale made sense at the time,” he said, only slightly joking.

John shook his head, not in irritation this time but in disbelief. “Alright,” he said. “No more of this. You get any more funny twinges, you tell me. We’re in this together or not at all. Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Right then. Back to this bloke at the window. What do you want to do about him?”

And just like that, they were back. One simple question and the tension that had been building in Sherlock in the weeks since Fear’s appearance was suddenly released. He didn’t have to fight the impulse anymore; he was being allowed to hunt, and John would be with him. He let a small smile of relief and pleasure (and perhaps gratitude) escape before stepping back to the window. The man had started walking down the street, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake. “I want to follow him,” Sherlock said. He turned to John and saw that the worry had been replaced with the familiar excitement. This was what he needed. This felt right.

They abandoned the flat and hit the street together. The man had just turned a corner in front of them, but was moving slowly enough that they didn’t lose him. As they went, Sherlock described his fleeting impressions to try to identify him. He moved with the lithe precision of a dancer or an acrobat, but there was little that could be used to pinpoint who exactly he was.

After an hour they arrived at Trafalgar Square, where some street performer had gathered a crowd of people near the fountain. The man headed straight for the thickest part of the crowd, and Sherlock didn’t hesitate in following, with John close behind.

If Sherlock hadn’t been so focused on his prey, he might have noticed it sooner. Like a flock of startled pigeons, the crowd started to move. People milled around in random directions and grew too close, blocking the man from view. Sherlock growled in frustration and moved faster, pushing people aside. “Damn!” Sherlock cursed. “I lost him.” He tried scanning the crowd to take advantage of his height, but the man’s short stature meant he blended in easily. John was looking around as well, not liking that they were trapped in the crowd, when Sherlock grabbed his arm. “John,” he said in a tone that demanded instant attention. “They’re here,” he hissed.

“Who?”

“Them, the People, they’re everywhere.”

John looked from face to face, but he didn’t have the skills needed to catch on to their shifting details. From his limited experience he knew that they tended towards rather outrageous outfits, but these people wouldn’t have looked out of place on any university campus. “Any that we need to worry about?”

“I don’t recognize anyone,” Sherlock said, trying to focus in the midst of a maelstrom of people and People. “I could try to pick out details and see if they match anything you know, but it’s a long shot.” When no reply came, he turned. “John?”

John was staring at a woman in the crowd some fifteen feet away. She was staring back unflinchingly; clearly one of the People, but Sherlock didn’t feel threatened as he did when Fear was watching them. Average height for a woman, with an athletic and sleek build. Her hair was dark, her complexion dusky, and her eyes a piercing green, visible even at this distance. She wore a tan shalwar kameez and a loose green hijab, all based on function rather than form.

“I know her,” John said. The woman smiled, and walked forward. John didn’t react until she stood right in front of him. “I know you,” he said again.

“Yes,” she said.

John watched her for a moment until his eyes widened in recognition. “You were there. You talked to me in the Underground.”

The woman grinned. It was hard to tell who moved first, but suddenly they were swept up in a tight embrace. The woman hung on to John’s neck and laughed while John had his face buried against her shoulder. It was like a meeting between long lost partners.

Sherlock stood back and watched. He felt a pang of annoyance and impatience at this distraction, the feelings expected but unwelcome. What was unexpected was the sharp acidic sting of jealously and the distant feeling of being left out. As soon as he recognized these reactions he tamped them down. They were useless to him, especially in this situation. He cleared his throat. “John.”

He released the woman, still grinning broadly. “What do I call you?”

“Aria,” she replied. “It’s good to meet you in the flesh, as it were.”

“You too,” he said warmly. He finally seemed to remember Sherlock was there. “Aria, my friend Sherlock Holmes.”

She nodded at him, but didn’t extend her hand. After the way that Paul hesitated before touching him, he didn’t take offense. “You’re John’s patron,” he said.

“The very same. And you’re the mortal who stole your John back from my dear uncle. That takes dedication.”

Sherlock glanced at John, who was looking at him with an easy smile. John had never treated Sherlock differently after he brought him back, for which he was grateful. He didn’t know how he would have handled misplaced hero worship or overprotective pestering. Sherlock, for his part, had done the same. Consequently, they never talked about it with any seriousness. “Uh, yes, it did. But well worth the effort.”

“Is there something wrong?” John asked, suddenly serious. “We usually only see people like you when something bad is about to happen.”

“I could feel you hunting divines around here,” she said. “A very strong divine in particular. I wanted to investigate.” She looked them over, resembling her twin brother for the first time. “You know what the stakes are, and how dangerous it can be. I wanted to make sure you were protected.”

“Yes, Babel did reluctantly inform us,” Sherlock drawled, cut short as John asked, “What danger?”

When they both stared at him, he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know, big, angry, insane war god, but it’s been nearly eight months since we saw Babel, and nothing has happened to us, not directly.”

“It’s because you’re important,” Aria said. “It’s easier to take out the foot solders first. Surely you must have noticed that?”

Sherlock looked at the thinning crowd to avoid looking at John. “Well, _someone_ decided to keep that information to himself,” he heard John growl.

Aria continued. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; we’ve been keeping you as far from the front lines as possible. Yet you still managed to make some interesting developments.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to demand an explanation about _that_ little tidbit when he saw her eyes widen at something over his shoulder. He turned in time to get an impression of white hair before the breath was knocked out of him.

“By the nymphs, what the hell did you think you were doing?” Babel asked, somewhat muffled by Sherlock’s coat.

“Good to see you too, Babel,” he muttered.

Babel pulled back to hold Sherlock at arm’s length. “I told you to stay out of this, to stay away, and then where do I find you? Chasing down a higher divine _without telling me first!_ ”

“Calm yourself, Babel,” Aria said. “It’s partly your fault they were hunting in the first place.”

Sherlock stilled, and watched Babel release him fully. He wasn’t sure, but he took a chance. “You’re what’s making me want to follow them?”

Babel’s face changed rapidly, from glaring at Aria, to looking helplessly at John, before settling on Sherlock with a sheepish expression. “That’s why I didn’t want you involved. I’m your patron, you’re my favoured. We’re connected. I couldn’t afford to stay out of this, but you could. I didn’t foresee certain side effects.”

“I thought I was going mad!” Sherlock ground out. He felt John’s hand on his arm, reminding him that it was a bit hypocritical to be angry when someone kept him ignorant in order to protect him.

“Babel, what are you doing here?” Aria asked.

Babel went from chagrined to anguished. “I had him!” he cried. “I found him and was following him. Months of tracking and finally he reveals himself. He wanted to be seen!” Babel fumed uselessly before reaching a decision. “Aria, check the area. Use your scouts; there were a lot of divines here who covered his tracks, but there’s still a chance you can sniff something out.”

She nodded, then turned to her ward. “We’ll meet again, I promise.”

John looked resigned at her departure. “I know. Probably when the world needs saving.” She smiled and turned into the crowd, disappearing faster than should have been possible.

John was left with Sherlock and Babel staring at each other, both trying to make the other accept their will. “Babel,” Sherlock started, but was quickly cut off.

“No,” he said, “no chance, no way, never ever, not a virgin’s chance in Father’s boudoir. You are not getting involved.”

“But-”

“ _No._ Can’t you understand that? I will not allow it.”

“I can-”

“I know you can, I am fully aware that you can. You would be brilliant at it; you’d be able to find and ruin whatever Ares tried to throw at you.” Babel was actually wringing his hands, he was so agitated. “But this isn’t about whether you can or not, it’s whether I can stand watching you take such a big risk.”

Oh.

Sherlock had assumed that the People picked favoured based on who was most likely to triumph over challenges and thus allow the patron to be more powerful. Maybe that’s how the relationship started, but Sherlock could see the pain and fear in Babel’s usually unreadable eyes. He was genuinely concerned about him.

Silence took over as Babel focused on the tattoo on his wrist and Sherlock tried to find something to say.

“We can help,” John said.

Babel’s desperation turned into anger. “How? What would mere mortals be able to do in a war of the gods?”

“Mortals?” Sherlock spat the word as if Babel had called them slugs. “We are not ‘mere mortals.’ You would never have favoured us if we were ‘mere mortals.’ You said so yourself, we are extraordinary, we are brilliant, we are—” Sherlock cut himself off and turned sharply, too worked up to continue.

John, who had been reading stories like these since he was eight, knew exactly what Sherlock had been trying to say but couldn’t admit. He supplied the missing title. “We’re heroes,” he said simply. Behind him Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t argue. “Babel, please. It’ll tear him to pieces if you keep refusing him. And I have to live with it.”

Babel paused. He turned towards Sherlock, more pain in his eyes than Sherlock thought had ever been directed at him. “I can't ask you to fight,” he said. “This isn't your war. I can't risk you and your John.”

“You’re hardly forcing us,” Sherlock argued.

“Sorry,” John interrupted, “I know this is a tiny detail compared to the major, world-encompassing battle of the gods, but why does everyone call me ‘his John’?”

Babel blinked. “Isn't it obvious?” he asked in a perfect imitation of the man standing in front of him. “He bought your soul. He traded his art and willpower to get you back, so, technically, he owns you.”

John kept himself under control rather well, considering what he had just heard. “Right, okay, that's...unexpected, but fine, whatever, doesn't matter right now.” Sherlock, on the other hand, was insufferably smug.

“Seems like you have a choice, Babel,” Sherlock said, returning to the topic at hand. “You can either let us help, or keep watching as we stumble our way through the dark and still get into trouble.”

Babel glared at him, fury warring with marvel on his face. “Fine,” he said. “As there is an excellent example of your tenacity and outright idiocy standing before us, I will concede to your wishes. But,” he held up one finger, “you will not hold back any information you find. You will work with us on this; no going off on your own because you think you know best. Same goes for you,” he added, pointing at John, who frowned. He backed off a few steps. “I’ll see you tomorrow with everything we’ve gathered.” A group of students passed between them and he was gone.

John took a deep breath. “I hope you know what you’ve got us into.”

Sherlock turned towards him with a feral grin. “Oh, yes,” he said, “we’re on the hunt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aria's appearance is based on National Geographic's famous ["Afghan Girl" ](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/b/b4/Sharbat_Gula.jpg/220px-Sharbat_Gula.jpg) Sharbat Gula.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up. My time has been filled with moving halfway around the world and starting a Master's degree. Never lose hope, my dears!

John woke the next morning to find Babel and Paul in the sitting room, already having helped themselves to cheese on toast and tea. They looked up, took in his rumbled pajamas and bathrobe, and returned to ignoring him. John said nothing and went to the kitchen, where, he noticed, there wasn’t any hot water left in the kettle. “Bloody gods,” he muttered, and added that to the ever-growing list of Things He Never Thought He’d Say. It was a mark of just how weird his life had become. When he returned to the sitting room he noticed that among the mugs and plates already scattered around, they also had all of Sherlock’s files on suspected favoured spread over the table and desk. It was somehow even more chaotic than the detective’s usual methods.

Paul still wore his green lenses, but John could tell he was watching him just the same. Babel was muttering to himself while looking over the papers. “Morning,” John finally said. Paul politely inclined his head while Babel’s snapped up. “John! Brilliant. Go get Sherlock and bring him here. We have a lot to discuss.”

John didn’t jump at the order like Babel expected him to, and sat in his chair instead, resting the mug of rather wretched instant coffee on the arm, the regular stuff being all used up and John needing the caffeine jumpstart. “Where’s Aria?” he asked.

“My sister is still hunting,” Paul said, a small smile playing around his lips. “She doesn’t have the patience needed for the paperwork side of things.”

“I can understand that,” John said as he picked up the nearest file. It had a black and white photo clipped to it of a man in his mid-forties with a military haircut. He looked like a nasty chap. John glanced up and saw Babel glaring at him. “Sherlock will be here soon. He probably knew you guys were here before he was fully conscious. He does like to make an entrance. Bit of a debutante like that.”

“I heard that,” came the familiar voice, coinciding perfectly with the toaster popping. Sherlock grabbed a piece of toast before sweeping in the sitting room. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and shirtsleeves with no jacket, which was as casual as he seemed to be able to get without reverting to the bathrobe or, god forbid, the sheet. He took in the state of the room and looked to Babel expectantly. John realized that he had lost the pallor of before and appeared to be in the peak of health. “What do we have?” Sherlock asked.

Babel jumped up to stand over the papers. “You’ve done well, considering. I’d say about half of these are favoured of Ares or his allies.” He swept the rejected files off the table. “And maybe about half of those could cause trouble for us.” He swept the rest off. Sherlock frowned at the mess.

“Plus the ones you missed,” Paul added, indicating a handful of folders, one of which was in John’s hand. Sherlock’s frown deepened.

Babel noticed and came over to him. “Don’t worry, dear. No one expected that you’d get even this many.” He patted his cheek before returning to the files. Sherlock gave John a scandalized look. John tried very hard not to laugh. He covered it up by flipping through the file he held, where a very familiar signature sat.

“Does Mycroft know you have his papers?” John asked. Paul smiled that shark grin.

“I may have nudged him into relinquishing them,” he said. “It helps that there are a fair few of us present in Whitehall.”

The less John thought about that, the better.

Sherlock had already dived into the new files. Pages flipped back and forth, accompanied by noises of interest or derision. The two gods were debating whether a direct attack would be better or to work through stealth and secrecy. John decided to take advantage of the lull and clean himself up. When he returned twenty minutes later, with a decent mug of tea and a mental acceptance of the insanity of the situation, they were in much the same attitude.

John settled back in his chair (Paul had usurped Sherlock’s, who was beside Babel shooting the god the occasional glare) and picked up the file he had earlier to read it more closely. _Moran, Sebastian._ John was right, he was a military man. Had risen to Colonel, was dishonourably discharged five years ago, and was working as a mercenary in some of the world’s less pleasant areas. Recently suspected to be connected with…

John’s breath left his lungs suddenly. Everything went cold and he looked up to see Paul smiling that damn shark grin at him. John stood and pushed the paper in front of Sherlock. He looked at him curiously but took it. John watched his eyes track over the page and knew when he reached the name. To anyone else Sherlock’s reaction would have seemed insignificant, but John saw the way his eyes darted around the room. He cleared his throat before meeting John’s eyes. “Yes, I suspected that he might show up again.” When John raised his eyebrows, Sherlock answered the unvoiced accusation. “I’m telling you now.”

“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked, directing it to both Sherlock and Babel. But it was Paul who answered.

“We’ve been monitoring the associates of all our favoured since Ares first started being an issue. James Moriarty has been active, but nothing that would indicate a link with a divine. If he is a problem, he is yours, not ours.”

“How compassionate of you,” John muttered.

“Focus on what’s in front of you,” Sherlock said. He stabbed a finger at the file. “This is what we need to be concerned about.”

John nodded after a moment. In truth, they hadn’t seen much of Moriarty either, save for the occasional whisper from a friend of a friend whose second cousin may have heard something a year ago. Those whispers still managed to throw Sherlock into an investigative frenzy every time they surfaced. It was with a dangerous single-minded intensity that he chased down leads, and they always led to nothing. _Treat it like a case,_ John told himself. “What’s the objective?” he asked. “I mean, after finding them?”

Paul’s voice was hard. “Neutralize them.”

“As a last resort,” Babel added hastily. “We would prefer them captured. As long as it results in them no longer being under Ares’ patronage.”

“Some of these guys look like they’re more than what Scotland Yard can handle.”

“Which is why I brought Paul in,” Babel said. “The more of us that are focused on this, the easier it’ll be.”

John eyed the papers still left on the table. “There’s got to be fifteen people here; how long will it take to track them all down?”

“That is where you underestimate us,” Paul said, rising from the chair. “We already know where they are, and have assigned divines to them accordingly. Divide and conquer. And before you ask why we need you,” he said, forestalling John who was about to ask that very question, “it’s strategy. It is far easier for a favoured to defeat another favoured than it is for a divine to intervene these days.”

“Not to mention how it inflates your ego,” Sherlock added.

Paul took the comment with a smile. There was an electronic beep and Paul, of all people, pulled out a mobile. “That’s Iris,” he said. “I have to go. Babel, you and Aria divide these between you; I’ll distribute the rest of them.” He swept up half of the files, somehow managing to straighten them into order before leaving the room.

They all stared down at the small pile left to them. “Divide?” John asked. Division was bad; it only worked if you divided people into teams, not split up individuals.

Babel caught the tension. “We’ll keep you together as long as we can. I’ve seen how well you two work together.”

Sherlock was already seeing which ones were left. “Best get started then.”

* * *

 

 “That was ridiculous,” John gasped. “Where on earth did you learn to box like that? Eton?”

“Harrow, actually,” Sherlock said, fighting his own elation.

“Wherever it was, you still looked like a ponce. I think that took him by surprise more than us finding his lair.”

“He was too busy waving that sword around to notice. Ah, Inspector,” he said as Lestrade walked up to them.

“Couldn’t you two at least _try_ to not act suspiciously?” he said. He was looking better than the last time they’d seen him, despite the late hour. “I have a prominent businessman’s house _on fire_ and you’re standing here giggling like pyros having a wank.”

“That same prominent businessman that just tried to feed us to his dogs?” Sherlock said. “In that house, that we were invited into? And found evidence that exposed him as funding an underground fighting ring? I didn’t know that _we_ were the suspicious ones here.”

“You know what I mean,” Lestrade growled. He turned back to the burning building, now mostly under control. “Look, get out of here before anyone sees you. And tomorrow I expect a decent answer as to how the fire started, something I can put in a report. Go home, and for fuck’s sake stay out of trouble.”

John had known him long enough to know when to bow out. When Lestrade’s language tilted towards the blue end of the spectrum, it was a clear warning signal. “Will do. Come on, Sherlock. Find us a nice Thai place.” He drew him away, leaving Lestrade walking towards the fire chief.

They decided to walk home, working off the last of the danger-high while gorging on pad khing and coconut rice. The night was mild and the streets empty, and as they skirted the zoo into Regent’s Park, John sighed and looked at the sky. Away from the light pollution of the streets he could make out a few stars. The sky was just beginning to turn grey.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he started, “but this doesn’t feel like a challenge.”

Sherlock watched him.

“I mean, that was the fourth one this month that Babel sent us after. I thought these guys were supposed to be the big shots. But they’re not much above our usual caliber. Right?”

“Aria,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“Aria. When we first met, she said something about keeping us off the front lines.”

John paused. “You don’t think...”

“It’s likely. These People are not above trickery to get what they want. If it’s any consolation, I doubt it was done maliciously. We’re not just ordinary favoured; we’re precious to them. Look at how Aria reacts to you, or Babel to me. They want to protect valuable assets.”

John snorted at ‘assets,’ just tired enough for the stupid pun to be funny, but didn’t comment.

“In all honesty, I don’t care who they send us after, as long as we’re doing _something,_ ” Sherlock continued. “Trying to ignore it all was getting rather tedious.”

“Yes, a divine war raging above our heads with us as pawns, but at least you’re not bored,” John said, but there wasn’t any bite to the remark. Sherlock smiled.

They continued home, and as they climbed the stairs John felt the lack of sleep fall on him like a fog. He might not even make it to his room, he decided. Might just stretch out on the couch and sleep there. If Sherlock wanted to do any bloody ‘thinking’ in the sitting room, he could just stuff it. He had a perfectly functional bedroom in which to throw around papers or play the violin or stare moodily out the window. The sitting room was his tonight (this morning) and he was already dreaming about lying flat out on that couch, shoulder be damned.

Someone was already sitting on it.

John suddenly felt a lot more awake.

The man was lounging with his feet on the table as if he belonged there. He didn’t look surprised to see them (and why would he be, it was _their flat_ after all) and actually raised his hand to his forehead in a jaunty salute. He was dressed in a mix of casual and office wear, a navy sport coat over worn jeans, with red Chucks crossed at the ankle. A wallet chain dangled from his pocket. His auburn hair was long but artfully tousled. He would have looked completely harmless except for one thing; they had seen him before. He was the divine they had followed to Trafalgar Square.

“Morning, boys,” he said.

Sherlock had gone stock-still but his voice was composed when he answered, “Morning, Ares.”

Ares actually chuckled at that. “I wish I had got to you earlier. It’s not fair that everyone else gets their own pseudonym, and I get stuck with something so ordinary.”

“Could call you Arse,” John said. He glanced around the room; no one else present, and Ares appeared unarmed, but who knew how dangerous these People were on their own. There was no easy way to contact Babel or Aria either. Best thing would be to stall. “What are you doing here?”

Ares stretched and stood up. He was shorter even than John, but was compact and lithe. “I can see why my siblings chose you, sentimental as they are.” He walked towards them slowly, every movement precise. “Expending all their energy on one favoured at time. Such a waste. All that potential wrapped up in one person, that’s so easy to snuff out. No backup plan at all.” He stopped in front of John. It wasn’t often that he was able to look down on someone but he couldn’t quite enjoy it as Ares’ pale green eyes stared at him over a snub nose. “Pity,” Ares said. “I nearly had you myself. The soldier, the man who kills without stopping to think.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock growled, actually _growled,_ and John didn’t need to turn to see the possessive anger on his face.

“It’s alright,” John said without breaking his gaze. All this was posturing, really. John had faced scarier men and more dangerous situations, and even if this was the unhinged, centuries-old, god of war standing in front of him, John felt that being afraid without a legitimate reason was pointless. So he stared him down.

Ares grinned.

“I’ve taken note of you over the past few months. Watching, evaluating, deciding how much of a threat you were going to become. Know what I found out?” He turned to Sherlock, still staring murderously at him. “That you’re as big a risk to yourselves as any of my favoured. You followed me so easily that day, like bulls to the altar. Really, all I’d have to do is wait; you would destroy yourselves eventually.”

John almost sighed, because, really? That was Ares’ big revelation? That they were a danger to themselves and each other? Half of London knew that already. And it wasn’t like they were as vulnerable as other people...

John glanced over to the clear box on the mantle.

Ares saw his gaze shift and looked behind him. He smiled at John. “No, I haven’t touched them. That would ruin the fun.” He walked to the mantle, dragging his fingers along it until they touched the box with the flower talismans in it.

That’s when John felt the beginnings of fear crackle down his spine.

“Is this all you came here to do?” Sherlock asked. “Threaten us to back off or else?” The familiar arrogance was reassuring.

Ares blinked, then suddenly doubled over with laughter, grabbing the mantle as if to keep himself upright. He went for several minutes, apparently wanting to live up to the ‘insane’ part of his reputation. He finally straightened, wiping his eyes. Eyes that had become glittering and dark. When he smiled, it was somehow sharper than before, filled with edges where before there was charm.

“My dear,” he said, his voice raspy, “it’s too late for warnings. I’m here to ruin you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out whatever was attached to the chain. It was a gold charm, and as he unhooked it from the chain, he said, “It’ll only need to be one of you. That will be enough to break your precious patrons.” He flicked his wrist, and the tiny charm was suddenly a long wooden bow in his hand. He looked up into John’s wide eyes and smirked. “Left the spear in my other trousers. Sorry.” He reached down into the quiver that had appeared along with the bow.

Sherlock was barely aware of moving as the small god lifted the arrow to his bow, take aim, and fire in less than a breath. Whereas before it would have struck John straight in the heart, it missed Sherlock’s by several inches. _Still a fatal wound,_ he thought absently as he felt himself fall. There was too much noise and not enough light. _No,_ _not like this._ He was swamped by darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you playing at home, there are now nine identifiable gods/divines mentioned in this story. Spot them all!


End file.
